


Gone Camping

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Camping, Case Fic, Gen, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: Small town, big forest, and an uncanny number of sudden disappearances. The brothers set to investigate.





	Gone Camping

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for paulamould on Tumblr. Thank you so much!

* * *

 

They arrive early in the midst of a downpour. The hunting cabin seems wet and run-down as the car stops before it, and although Sam's had a few hours of sleep, he feels awful. The sight of the cabin doesn't make it any better.

"How many beds you said there were?"

"Um," Dean lets out, his lips wrapped around the hole in his travel mug full of coffee, "Two?"

"I'm betting against you," Sam scoffs and takes the dive out the passenger side door.

And it's a dive for sure. The moment he's out, rain falls heavy and cold all over him. He rushes to the back of the car and wrestles the trunk open, his fingers slipping over the wet metal. Dean joins him soon enough; he gives him a look of mixed concern and amusement as Sam struggles to pull out two bags, then leaves with them over his head. Dean's got the keys, so Sam stops by the doorway and lowers the bags on the porch - the roof here covers him from the rain, but the chill lingers. Worse yet, Dean doesn't seem to mind the weather, and he's walking up to Sam in casual stride and a devilish smirk on his features.

"What, you made of sugar all of a sudden?" he asks, dropping the last bag on the porch beside the rest before digging out the key from his pocket.

"Just - not in the mood for it," Sam tells him under his breath.

He enters the cabin first, and it's not half as bad as he feared. Sure, there are two beds, and Sam's mildly relieved he never confirmed the money he's betting against Dean. They both look creaky - one's wooden, the other has a metal frame, and only one of them is located in the bedroom while the other sits beside the wall in the living area - but there are plenty of blankets and the pillows look good enough, as long as they get some fresh linens over them. There's no electricity, and water comes from a well outside the cabin, but there's a big fireplace and a comfortable-looking couch (that could probably house a third person in a bigger group overnight), and the kitchen, set in the same space as the rest of this all, consists of a gas stove with a kettle already sitting on top of it, a few cupboards and a table for three.

"So?" Dean asks him, closing the door behind them.

Sam grimaces, then lets out a defeated chuckle.

"I suppose it'll do."

"Hell yes it will."

 

* * *

 

They only linger for a little while to unpack necessities like toothbrushes and razors, a bundle of fresh clothes, the linens; afterwards, it's time to head back to town. A few miles from the cabin sits a sleepy little collective of all-American, back-country houses, two grocery stores, a trashy-looking bar, and a Sheriff's office. There's a church, too; mostly built out of wood in the 19th century, it's rather lackluster in a wholly romantic manner, and Sam's eyes linger upon it for a while as they pass by. The first stop is the grocery store: they pack up whatever survives in a cabin with no electricity, a few beers, and a big bag of chips to share between them. The next stop is the Sheriff's office, where a man in his early forties with a thick mustache and no beard to speak of greets them without seeming to care much about the fact that they're both in their civilian clothes.

"You two the guys investigating the disappearances?"

"We're investigative journalists."

"Right. Whatever. If you dig up anything our boys haven't, check it in with us first before printing it in a paper. Not that I think you will - the cases are cold."

"The last one's barely a week old," Dean notes with raised brows.

"Well, what do you call a case where a person disappeares leaving behind no evidence? We call it cold."

Dean thinks it through for a moment before making a vague gesture with his head. He exchanges looks with Sam as they step into the office.

"So, how much can you tell us?" Sam asks the sheriff.

The man lets out a dry chuckle, digs into his office desk and pulls out a file. He slams it on the table before them and shrugs.  
"Everything. Take a look."

Dean grabs the folder and opens it - the only things inside it are the papers of the supposed victims. A woman, 21 years of age; a man, 34, and another man, 42. The woman and the first man are Caucasian, the other man, based on his name and his appearance, is of Latin origins. At first glance, there's nothing to connect them.

"She worked at the local grocery store with her cousins," the sheriff tells them, tapping the woman's picture with his fingertip, "And old Joe here, he was a good friend. This guy..."

The sheriff moves the paper of the 34 years old male, taking a look at it with creased brows.

"Him we don't know. He was a first time hunter, came around about a month ago. Then vanished. First we thought he might have just, you know, _left_ \- but then we found his bags, his weapons, even his ID card and his phone from the woods. Nothing was torn, there was no blood, so an animal attack just seems unlikely. Maybe he got lost. We searched, but there were no results. Same as for Annie here, same as for Joe. It's like a bunch of aliens grabbed them."

Dean lets out a low chuckle, closing the folder.

"Well, it probably wasn't aliens. And if it was," he says, "The silver lining is that you'll be famous."

"Some tourists wouldn't hurt the budget," the sheriff chuckles in a tired manner and sits back into his chair, "but that's about all I have to tell you. So - make of it what you will."

"Any pictures of the hunter's things where you found them?" Sam asks.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Sure."

The sheriff hands him an iPhone. After a moment's shock, Sam accepts it and looks through the pictures - sure enough, there are photos of bags, one backpack and one for weapons, sitting in the underbrush.

"Do you have the coordinates for the location?"

"Yep. You want 'em?"

"We'd like to take a look."

"Sure. There's not much to see - it's just forest in there, trust me."

"We'll take a look anyway," Dean promises, taking the note that the sheriff has scribbled for them, having copied it from what looks like a personal journal.

"Again - let me know if you guys find anything. I doubt you will, but run it through me first before you let your paper know."

"Sure thing."

 

* * *

 

The brothers drop the groceries and the car by the cabin, pick up a map and head into the forest. By now the rain has passed and the noon sun is high, casting warmth and light through the canopy of mixed trees. A gentle breeze rushes through the leaves as Sam makes his way through the underbrush behind his brother, both of them following a non-path towards their destination based on a detailed map of the environment and a compass that Dean carries as the first in line. There's always been something relaxing about nature for Sam, and he's happy to be making this journey, even though he's carrying a gun with him and knows to be prepared for anything at any moment. Right now, it doesn't feel that threatening, however - the birds are singing all around them, and the only sounds from the forest around them are those that naturally belong to it. Their footsteps echo between the tree trunks as they move forwards and further away from civilization; somewhere ahead, two crows are fighting, and the noise, for the moment that it lasts, seems almost deafening in the quiet.

"So - I'm betting on a wendigo," Dean lets out after a good fifteen minute walk in silence.

Sam nods.  
"I've been thinking the same. Bags left untouched means it's not something that would benefit from human equipment - hell, even a vamp would like a gun. The same thing goes for silent disappearances this far up in nowhere. Yeah, it's probably a wendigo."

"Which means," Dean notes, lifting up his bag, "that we're ill-prepared."

Again, Sam has to nod.  
"Yeah."

They're quiet for another few moments.

"We do have alcohol."

"Do you want to burn down the whole forest?" Sam asks, lifting his head and casting a suspicious look at Dean's back.

Dean shrugs.  
"Not particularly," he chuckles, throwing a shoulder as if to bounce Sam's words off him, "but we can bring a couple Molotovs inside an old mine or a cave or whatever that bastard's lurking in."

Sam considers it.  
"Maybe," he says then, still hesitant - an explosion of fire is something that can't be controlled as much as he'd prefer to control a weapon, and at best, they could bring four with them if they carried one in each hand.

Four shots at something that moves at lightning's speed; the odds have been better for them.

"Do you see anything on the map?" he asks, and Dean steps to the side in front of him, stopping.  
He leans towards the map that Dean offers between them and they look through it in silence, with the sun's heat burning at the back of Sam's neck through a gap in the treetops above.

"There is a cave," Sam notes then, "Up ahead that way."  
He draws a line on the map and glances into the forest.  
"But it's too close to the hunting trails, I mean, people go exploring, and nobody's gone missing until now. The chances are, if you walk directly into a wendigo's nest, even if it's hibernating, you won't get out alive."

"True. So - we can rule that cave out for now."

"I don't see another."

"It's possible it's not marked," Dean says thoughtfully, "But that doesn't exactly make our work easier... wait - no, wait. Sam. There."

He pats the map with his fingertip.

"That's a cave, right?"

Sam squints.  
"Yeah," he confirms, "That's a cave. And it's far enough."

"Too far," Dean growls, "We'd have to stay overnight, and I don't like the sound of that. Not that I mind the wendigo, it's just - camping, man."

Sam sighs. He lifts his own bag further up his shoulder and lets out an indistinctive sound.  
"Yeah," he says then, "Yeah, that's... but if it's that cave, and I mean, it can't be anything else that we can see on the map - do we have a choice?"

Dean tilts his head with a pained grimace on his face, then folds the map over and turns around to face the direction they've been heading.

"C'mon, let's check out the coordinates. Then go back and - ugh - whatever."

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

There's little to see where the coordinates lead them. It's forest like any other place, with a tall bush growing where the imprints of the bags can still be seen on the ground. Not far away, however, Dean spots something that confirms their suspicions: Sam follows him there and they watch the claw marks on the tree quietly.

"That ain't no bear," Dean finally says in a defeated voice.

"So... camping, huh."

"Gotta love it."

"Yep."

The walk back to the cabin feels shorter than the walk there did, but they both pack up whatever they can carry with downcast looks on their faces, letting out only the occasional deep sigh to break the silence. Around 1pm, they start making their way back into the forest with their bags full but surprisingly light: the heaviest thing they're carrying is the tent they've bought years ago in anticipation for a case just like this one, and then, to their relief, never used.

Until now.

Sam takes the lead. He's better at this - better with nature than Dean is. He carries the map in one hand with the compass tied around his wrist, hanging over and occasionally tapping against the weather-proof paper at its back, and a bottle of water in the other. They get about as much use: every time he checks the map, he seems to move directly into taking a sip out of his bottle next. The weather's hot with no cloud left in the sky and humid with the morning's downpour evaporating in the heat, but at least the air's moving, and despite the sweat gathering in his pits and back, Sam feels pretty good about the journey so far. Behind him, Dean doesn't seem to share the sentiment. He grunts and growls at steady intervals, and every now and then, some part of him seems to get caught in the bushes or the low-hanging branches on the way like there's a playful spirit deliberately aiming to sour his mood further. It seems that they've changed places since morning: now Sam's the one with high spirits, and Dean the one who'd rather be doing anything else.

"Are we there yet?" Dean asks him once, with a depressed tone of humour in his voice.

Sam chuckles and leaves the question unanswered - it'll be a good half a day more until they'll be "there", and Dean knows it just fine. And that's only if things go as planned.

Around four in the afternoon, they stop for a snack. Sam drops his bag on the ground with a low growl of relief as the weight leaves his shoulders, and he sits on a somewhat dry fallen tree to dig an apple and some bread out of his bag. Dean joins him, walking only a few steps behind him: he seems happy to take a break.

"Hey," he says as his butt hits the trunk, "You've been whining about not getting enough quiet time for years. How's this for a retreat?"

Sam huffs, offering a lightly-buttered slice of bread to his brother. Dean snatches it off his hands with moderate excitement; he doesn't wait before stuffing his face.

"It's not bad," Sam confesses.  
He casts a look around them, at all the greenery surrounding them, and adjusts on the trunk. His apple, too, tastes pretty good.

"Did you pack the peanut butter?"

"I did."

"Then why do I have regular butter on my bread?" Dean asks, not that it seems to bother him that much: a good one third of his slice is gone.

"Because I'm saving it."

"Why are you saving it? There's a whole jar of it."

Sam can feel Dean's judgemental look on his skin, sighs, and pushes his hand inside the bag again. It takes him a while to find the peanut butter, but Dean's eyes glow when he places it between them.

"I need my calories, man," Dean breathes out when he opens the jar and starts spreading peanut butter over his already buttered bread.

After the light meal, they move on again. By the time they pitch up the tent a short distance away from the cave's entrance, the sun's already setting.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Get the fire going - we need to eat something proper before we go in."

"And you?"

"I'm going to see where the cave is. Don't worry, I'm taking a Molotov with me just in case, but - we need to know where we're going, or we might not find it in the dark. And it'll be dark by the time we get going."

Dean sniffs and wipes an itch off the tip of his nose with the back of his palm. He seems conflicted for a moment before nodding and dropping down to clear off an area for a fire.

"Sammy, be careful, alright?" he says as Sam pulls out one of the bottles they've prepared, the oily substance within lapping at the glass walls confining it when disturbed.

Sam looks at him and smiles, for a moment experiencing a strange moment of clarity as he swaps the cap for one with a hole in it and pulls through a torn piece of cloth to finish the bomb in his hand. They live a weird life.

"I'll be back before the food's done," he promises.

Leaving Dean behind fills him with concern, too. He's not worried about himself, even though he probably should be: wendigo are nocturnal, they hunt the best in the dark, and dusk is very close now. Still, leaving his brother behind, tending a defenseless campsite - despite knowing that Dean is more than capable of surviving under any given conditions - bothers him. He finds his steps anxious and quick as he makes his way through the forest towards a looming wall of rock that seems like someone cut a slice out of the mountain growing from the landscape. Somewhere in there should be a cave, a naturally-formed opening in the mountain's side, but finding it isn't that easy. It's where they'll go tonight, however; they've got no choice.

Sam moves up a rocky hill leading up to the mountain's side. He finds himself breathless by the time he can touch the stone, and there's no cave there that he can see. He checks the map again, ears picking out a bone-chilling cry from the distance, but by the time he realises it's just a fox, his heart is already racing like mad. Shuddering, he pulls out his phone to shine a light on the map; he should be there now. He looks around again, trying to find a darker spot in the dwindling evening light, and starts walking left along the mountain towards a corner hidden by a few larger rocks that have probably stood there guarding that place since the last ice age. He reaches them by the time the birds are starting to go quiet around him, and the eerie silence that lingers around the landscape only seems to highlight the sound of his own crunching steps as he makes his way around. He leads himself past the rock by touching its rough surface, and there it is: right in front of him is a thin gap in the stone wall, like the mountain is an enormously large eye and the cave the slit of its pupil. It stares at Sam as Sam stares at it, and he shudders again; if his guts are right, this has to be the place.

He doesn't hesitate when he walks back to the campsite. The unease in his body doesn't let go even as he sees the glow of fire through the trees, but by the time he can hear Dean humming, a knot comes loose inside him. Dean has that effect on him.

"Hey," he calls as he approaches, his footsteps having already stilled Dean in his tracks, "It's me. I found the cave."

"So, what's it look like?"

"Bad. It's natural, as we thought, and the opening is small. Might be tricky getting inside."

"So we wait outside."

"No, I think we should take the fight in there. The less space... the less room for the Molotovs to miss."

Dean considers it for a moment.  
"Yeah," he says then, "But you know - the less space, the more likely it is that we'll get caught in it, too."

Sam grunts. He sits beside the bubbling kettle full of... something; he's not entirely sure which cans Dean's mixed there, but it smells good after a long day's walk.

"You really want to take our four bottles and start throwing them in the open?" Sam asks him as Dean sits down on the ground on top of a sleeping bag and fills up a cup with the contents of the kettle.

The older brother hands the cup to Sam before answering, and Sam accepts it, sitting down beside him. The forest around them rustles quietly, but nothing in it signals another entity's present. Perhaps the creature is resting tonight - or perhaps, more likely, it simply hasn't come out yet.

That, or they're in the wrong place.

"Eat," Dean tells him, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Quietly, Sam nods, picks up a plastic spoon and drops it in his food.

 

* * *

 

The night, at least, is clear. With the moon climbing higher in the sky, it's not impossible to see the hill leading up to the mountain. It's harder to walk up it quietly, Sam realises; every step they take makes a loud sound in the silence around them, and he's almost certain they've already made their presence known to the monster that might be waiting for them inside that hole in the mountain. When they reach the gap, Dean's the first to go in. It's by instinct - it's always him facing the threat first. Sam guards his back, makes sure nothing gets to him unexpected, while he secures the front, always ready to react to the smallest sound or movement, always ready to protect his brother. The light from his flashlight dances over the slightly moist walls now enveloping them on both sides. They squish through the opening that tears at their clothes, but inside it, the cave grows larger. It's still not comfortable, but at least the ceiling is above their heads and they don't have to crouch. The next thing Sam feels is the smell of death lingering in the damp air - beside him, Dean suppresses a gag and holds his breath for a moment.

"We're here," he says, as if to answer his own question from hours ago.

The cave calls them deeper. There's only one way through, and they walk it tensely, grasping the bottles in their hands, with two more sticking out of their pockets, but at the end, they find no wendigo. Instead, they find its lair and two living human beings, two victims that Sam recalls from the papers: Annie and Joe. At the sight of the flashlight, Annie makes a muffled sound; she's weak, too weak to get up, and they're both tied up to each other and a protruding stone behind them. Dean hands the flashlight to Sam, who points it briefly towards the way they came in, then shines it on the victims as Dean moves to them with a knife in hand, ready to cut through the rope holding them still. The smell of death comes from just beside them. Sam feels sick as he looks at the gnawed bones of animals and humans alike, old and fresh, some still bloody, most of them rotting; he swallows thickly and moves his gaze back to the victims. Then, just as the rope breaks, Joe seems to gesture behind them - and Sam hears it, too.

They can't throw a Molotov towards the only exit out of the cave.

"Quick," Dean hisses at the victims.  
He helps them up, and they, weakly as it is, make it to the side of the cave. They squish against the wall as Sam shines the light into the corridor, and he can see the creature already, tall and skeletal, standing in the way.

It examines him for just a second before letting out a howl and charging. A wendigo's charge is lethal - it's much faster than a human at its best, and Sam feels its body colliding with his own. He feels blood, but he's not sure where it's coming from, or if it's his or coming from the beast flashing past him. Dean shouts; Sam can see a flash of light as he lights one of the wicks sticking out of a Molotov cocktail.

"Move!" Dean yells at them, and Sam struggles towards the exit, for some reason holding his side and feeling like it's best he kept doing so, just in case.

The victims charge for the way out as the wendigo turns around at the dead end of its lair, facing Sam, facing Dean, who's holding the bomb above his head.

"You wanna burn?" Dean spits at it and tops it with a hollow laugh.

His other hand is touching Sam behind him - pushing him towards the exit. Sam nods, dives out of the way and heads for the barely visible slit of light at the end of the tunnel. Behind him, flames strike. The whole cave flashes with heat and light, drowning out the exit for a moment as everything becomes too bright to see in. Sam feels something grab him tight and start pulling him onwards, and from the scorching, violent sounds of the flames, he can hear an inhuman scream that the fox from before couldn't hope to match. Through those things, they move; the two human figures ahead of them disappear through the gap, and finally, Sam can feel fresh air over his features. Dean pushes him into the gap and they force their way through, and now Sam knows it's his blood running down his hands. Still, he doesn't feel the pain; he hopes the blessing lasts long enough to get him back to the campsite.

 

* * *

 

It's three in the morning, and the campfire has been lit again. Beside it, the two victims sit huddled up in blankets, eating the best they can: they look terrible, with scratches and bruises and starvation all giving them the distinct look of people who have barely survived something horrible. Sam watches them with a glassed out look in his eyes, holding his shirt up from the side the wendigo cut through his body. Dean's stitching him, and the alcohol still burns in the cut, but he'll live - walking back tomorrow is the thing that worries him the most. It wasn't a short trek to make in a better condition, but now? They might not even make it by sunset.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out, his voice out from exhaustion and pain, "I should have been quicker."

"You didn't stand a chance, Sammy, I saw it. But it's gonna be good, I've got you; just one more stitch, alright?"

"Mm."

Annie turns her tired eyes towards Sam and pulls a s'more off her stick. She holds it towards Sam and smiles weakly.

"For you," she says, and Sam takes it with a hint of a smile lingering on his dry lips.  
He nods.

"Thank you. Look - if you've eaten," he starts, but the feel of a fish hook piercing his skin cuts off his sentence for a moment, "If - if you've eaten, you should get some sleep. The tent's big enough for three, so... one of us keeps guard while the others are sleeping."

"Is it dead? The creature?" Joe asks; he looks a little better off than Annie, but it's likely just because he was the last victim to get caught - he simply hasn't been there long enough to show the worst of it.

"It's dead alright," Dean grunts, finally standing up from Sam's side.  
He grabs a bottle of water and pours some over his hands to wash off the blood the best he can.  
"I saw it catch fire. Trust me, it ain't getting up again after that."

Sam can spot the relief washing over the victims, and despite the throbbing in his side as he lets his shirt back down, he can't help but smile again.

"It's over," he confirms, "You're safe. Tomorrow, we'll walk back to our cabin and call the sheriff there, he can come pick you guys up."

Dean nods.  
"It'll be a long walk, don't get me wrong," he tells them, "But other than that, you're pretty much in the clear."

He turns to look at Sam with a crooked smile on him.

"You too, buddy. Get some rest," he tells him, and Sam sighs with his smile flickering alive once more before dying out.

Afterwards, he yawns; it's been one hell of a day.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "I think I'm gonna do exactly that."

 


End file.
